Monthly Archives: December 2007

friday love list: it just makes you smile edition.

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10

If you’ve been around here long, you know that the Friday Love List is a bit of a tradition at the old MeggyF.com. Not that I’m always totally on the ball about KEEPING that tradition, mind you… but I do love me a love list.

(You can find old ones by searching “love list” over there —> Go ahead. We’ll wait.)

I do the love lists on Fridays because I figure it’s good to start the weekend full of love.

(You know, instead of workplace angst and eighty-nine stories about the non-functioning photocopier and that guy in Finance who picks at his hands and the elevator that shudders when it goes past the third floor.)

And I’m even MORE about the love this morning because I stood next to Attractive Bald Guy on the bus to work today and he smelled like MAGIC and though I was wearing a less than magical sweater-and-jeans combo I HAD remembered to put on lip gloss prior to getting on the bus which means I had little opportunity to poke myself in the eye in my efforts to make a hasty application of the same.

Run-on sentence!

The name of the lipgloss? Oversexed. Take that, product placement experts.

On that note?

Let the love begin…

THINGS I LOVE

This song by Sara Bareilles. Seriously. I CANNOT GET ENOUGH. I sing it all the time. It’s very Meg. Well, it’s more Sara than Meg, but if Sara knew Meg, she’d share. Of this I am confident.

I should just get it over with and marry a plate of french fries.

Suddenly, I’m wearing gold again, after rabidly exiling it from my life for years as a teenager and young adult. I thought gold was “tacky”, which horrified my mother. And still, my only real gold is found in the form of my grandma’s engagement and wedding rings, but I like how they appear to be sunshining from my finger. I’m going to start slow and see how it goes.

My red shoes are as fond of me as I am of them. And also — “stacked heel”? That’s how I’ve always thought of myself.

I’m having a love affair with our Christmas tree. Granted, that would actually be awkward, what with all the needles. Like dating Pete Doherty, really. But I do love our new colours and how it sparkles merrily into the night.

Chocolate-covered cherries are the bomb (cherry bomb?) I know, I know. Horrifying and sugary and NOTHING like ANYTHING I ever have professed to love before, but the cheapie Lowney ones are like crack in a box for me. And it’s the time of year for stupid sugar eating, right?

Um, hi, can I have this life? Ok, cool. I think the last time I was all effortless and chic and tanned like that, I was on vacation, and I probably spilled coffee on myself seconds later or bonked my head getting into Eric’s car. I’ve also not found myself rolling around in beach houses with a blonde man at ANY point. That, my friends, is what should go under “travesty” in Oxford’s Unabridged.

And speaking of ERIC! He’s coming to visit us on Thursday for a few days, and we couldn’t be more excited. Well, we probably could be, but that would annoy everyone around us and probably result in fractured relationships. Which would be okay, because we IMPORT ONES TO REPLACE THEM. Well, just the one. Eric.

Cold, starry nights are the best form of weather (well, tied with warm, starry nights, I guess.) When we get them, I can see stars through my window when I’m lying in bed. There are few things so lovely for a last waking image as those pinpoints in the sky.

Texting. Texting. Texting. Ahhh!

Oy, do I love singing. I cannot sing enough. ‘Tis the season for it, I suppose, but there are few feelings as satisfying as letting music fly out of my heart and bones into the air. I can’t sing even a quarter as well as my rather accomplished roommate, but we go on long drives and sing along with CDs and it’s perfect.

***

So what do you love?

Love it up in the comments, or at your own blog… but make sure to point us to it.

And it’s not a “meme”… it’s a way of life.

(Grin.)

how things change.

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Right now, our dear and beloved friend Eric (who is visiting in a week, but hasn’t updated his blog since two visits ago, and one visit to SD for us) is watching the Ducks go at the ‘Nucks in Anaheim.

That’s right. Eric — he of this entry — is at the hockey game, leaving jubilant voicemails for me about the Canucks being in the lead.

Since he’s a Canucks fan.

I think my work is complete here.

reason no. 3,784 why i’m single.

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9

I’m not easily startled.

I’m one of those “keep a cool head” people who can wade into emergencies and stare down creeps and walk dark alleys without seeing a boogeyman behind every dumpster.

However.

Spiders? Turn me into a complete and total KNOB.

I see one — well, okay, a spider bigger than say, the palm of my (very small! very small!) hand, not just a mini spider fooling around on a wall, because hey! hi. it’s cool you’re here, I understand our ecosystems need you, just stay out of my pants — and my brain goes absolutely blank.

I want to be ANYWHERE BUT THERE.

Which is essentially what happened in my bathroom early this morning when I came rolling in with my happy white towels, ready for a hot shower.

There he was.

On the shower curtain.

A behemoth (okay, not really, but he wasn’t tiny AND I DON’T CARE! IT WAS SHOCKING AT 5:45 AM!) of a spider, just waiting to torture me with his very presence.

I made an immediate and involuntary squeak toy noise, and shrank back against the wall.

He was blocking my Portal to Cleanliness, and I was not impressed.

I got a magazine — Avril Lavigne was on the cover, I hoped this would help — and steeled myself to take a whack at him, but every time I moved to do it, he moved enough to startle me into dropping Avril on the ground. And there was nothing solid behind him to help the magazine out, either, so my hits lacked little punch when they actually connected.

Sigh.

That’s how I ended up not showering, pulling my hair back into a ponytail, and doing my makeup bent in from the doorway, one eye trained on the interloper at all times. I’m aware of how ridiculous that sounds, but I literally could not force myself to stay in the room with him.

Finally, he made a hardcore break for it, and that’s when I screamed.

Screamed.

At 6:15 am.

It was at this moment that three things happened:

    1. I felt like a COMPLETE TOOL and started to cry. CRY. Partly because of the spider and partly because I WAS BEING A TOOL.

    2. Catherine came flying out of her room (she was due up any minute, it’s okay!) to see if I was injured in some way.

    3. Dean heard me scream upstairs, and texted Catherine (who he thought was the screamer) to lie and say she woke up the baby (The baby was already awake, as was Dean.)

Here’s where the story improves, mostly because Catherine has a morbid fear of mice and understands the Power of Irrational Panic in Enclosed Spaces with Unpleasant Creatures. She would do no better than I did, if it had been a mouse.

(Which it wasn’t. It was something much smaller, of course. Did I mention that I’m a tool?)

Fortunately, Catherine is NOT afraid of spiders — a power I’d been trying to access for 30 minutes by whimpering in the direction of her door (forgetting, of course that Catherine sleeps like the dead.)

Once she figured out why I was crying, she went straight into the bathroom, shut the door, and less than a minute later, I heard the toilet flush. Then she came out, patted me on the back, and it was over.

Well, except for the fact that I still felt like a tool.

It didn’t take me long to get past it once I got to work and focused on other things, but part of me continues to flail because I never wanted to be one of those girls who was scared of stuff.

Especially a screamy one.

And here’s the worst part — when I’d have a cabin full of terrified girls gathered around a much larger spider at camp, I wouldn’t hesitate to actually PICK THE DAMN THING UP and put it outside, or dispatch of it in a less poetic and earth-friendly manner with my stowed-away and incredibly heavy copy of the Fall Preview Vogue.

I was the rescuer! Not the rescuee!

I’ve become a screamy girl. LATE IN LIFE.

I think this is more depressing than the day I realized that Andrew Ridgeley was never really going to have a comeback.

And I’m still not over that.

Sigh.